Pilgrimage to Tol Barad
by Tabbykitty101
Summary: Fresh on the heels of the Second War, First Lt. Connor returns to Tol Barad to face the specters he left behind.  What dark force now infests the island, and how does its dark tendrils shape what Tol Barad has become in the present day?
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: This story represents my 2011 effort in the Blizzard Creative Writing Contest. The short format meant I didn't get to expand on certain areas as much as I might have liked, but I still think it came out decently._

_I don't know if anyone else out there is like this, but I seriously dislike stuff being put in the game without any lore base. From everything I found on Wiki, Tol Barad was a key area in the Second War, and was the site of numerous atrocities and battles from then until now. I figured it might be interesting to explore the history of one of the quest mobs…ie First Lt. Connor, and weave in a bit of a lore explanation for the strange happenings on the island. I hope you enjoy!_

The scabrous stars glittered through restless clouds; their sickening light shuddering off the naked blade below. First Lieutenant Jonathan Connor, celebrated hero of the Alliance and Scourge to the forces of the Horde, bowed his head under the weight and pulled his eyes away from the ghostly pallor of the monument surrounding him. Not so easy was stopping his ears from the dusty rustlings and squishing noises surging around his shelter. The unquiet dead were waiting for their hero to finally join them.

_It was too much to wish for sunlight, just this once_, he thought bitterly as he positioned the gleaming blade just below his heart. _This place hasn't seen the sun since the Second War, which is perhaps how it should be_. It would be quick, relatively, in comparison to the curse already beginning to ravage his flesh. Even now the cords of his arms rippled with rot and squirmed with vile magics. With this one act he would be free of them, and hopefully beyond the curse's foul reach.

He turned an eye slightly left and focused past the shuddering forms wandering among the leprous stones. His sister was still there at the very precipice of the graveyard, ensconced in her bright shield of holy light. The undead creatures of this place would not dare intrude while the Light was with her. Just behind her still form was the small gathering of Kirin Tor, there to ensure the spectacle was carried out. He took a firmer grip on his trusted sword, turning it slightly so the echo of her Light reflected up into his eyes. It wasn't sunlight, but was close enough to be comforting as the sword slid home.

_Tol Barad is where my comrades died. It is my final resting place, sister, now in truth, as it should have been then._


	2. Chapter 1 Arrival

**One Month Earlier**

"I can see it just ahead! By the Light, what a lump of rock!"

Jillian Connor, disciple of the Light and cleric of the now destroyed Cathedral of Stormwind, slid down from her perch at the ship's bow and staggered to amidships. The swells approaching the island were beginning to buffet the ship and make footing difficult. Jonathan Connor, hero to the Alliance and brother to the small woman, reached out an arm and caught her before she could tumble past.

"Careful, sister. Captain Harris says the approach to Tol Barad can be tricky."

"Aye," spat the gaunt man at the ship's grand wheel. "Tides be tricky, even for those from Kul Tiras. Sharks in the water too, just waiting for one to tumble in." He gnashed his teeth dramatically and swung the wheel, pointing the ship straight at the growing shadow ahead.

"Such a comforting lump of nothing in the middle of nowhere," Jillian grumbled beneath the shouts and cursing of the crew hard at work. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"Not nothing in the middle of nowhere," Connor admonished. "This was where Doomhammer himself attacked our forces to destroy our ability to halt their advance towards Lordaeron." He sighed deeply and gazed out towards the dark lump growing on the horizon. "Good men and women were butchered by those monsters. It is our duty to ensure they are laid to rest. Stormwind may be destroyed, but she does not forget her heroes."

"Are the orcs...still here?" Jillian asked nervously.

"Not according to the Kul Tirans," Connor answered calmly. "With Doomhammer's death and the defeat of the orcs, Kul Tiras claimed the island. They've been working with the Kirin Tor to settle the place."

"Well, the peninsula anyway, laddie," grumped the bristling, orange-haired dwarf at his elbow. "The Kirin Tor insisted they take over the old fortress and Tol Barad proper. Secret doings they said."

"So you say, Lord Farson. Do they have any objections to us carrying out our mission?"

"Bah, when have you known a mage to give you straight answer?" Farson snorted. "They stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs. No open objection is the same as an invitation I say."

"We were lucky to meet up with you in Menethil then, instead of having to go all the way into Kul Tiras territory to find a ship here."

"Hah, laddie, there ain't too many fools still who wish to come to Tol Barad. Even less on some sort of _mercy_ mission for the Alliance." Farson shook his head. "No, only the true men with salt in their veins dare venture to the damned isle to tame it as our own. We've been working hard for months to rebuild what the orcs destroyed." He leaned back, beaming a cracked smile at Jillian's skeptical face. "It may be rough, but even a wee lass such as yourself could make a home there."

Connor chuckled. "My sister is a priestess of the Light, Lord Farson. I doubt..."

"The Light is a harsh master, dear Farson, although I am sure a mighty shaman such as yourself could be very convincing," Jillian broke in smoothly, unleashing a dazzling smile on the dwarf. Farson guffawed, slapping Connor on the arm. He bowed towards Jillian and paced off across the decking.

The ship slewed to the right, paralleling the darkened shore. Connor closed his eyes, automatically seeking the reeking island scent in the blowing spray. Even this far out it was there...rank and sulfurous; the stench he felt even in his sleep. Only now it seemed tinged with a hint of charnel house; burned bones and ash carried by the breeze. He felt a hand creep into his own.

"You didn't have to come back here," Jillian said quietly.

"Yes I did," Connor answered, opening his eyes. "This is the only place I could go."


	3. Chapter 2 Farson and the Mages

Under the Captain's deft touch, the _Bitter Sea_ maneuvered through the rocky waters and half-submerged wrecks to her anchor just offshore. Sailors bustled across the decks, making the ship fast against the tides. Men and women, settlers from Kul Tiras, spilled out of hidden passageways; eager to sniff the winds of their new home. At their head, Lord Farson preened and twirled portions of his intricately braided beard while shouting orders to his flock.

"It doesn't look like much," Jillian remarked. She reappeared on deck with their satchels slung over her shoulder. "Farson appears to be in his element."

Connor stared into the swirling mists. He could already see the expanse of white beach, and the forlorn, spray-drenched rocks of the keep to the west. Last he'd been here the Keep had been shining and well-lit, with fires at every corner. So too had been the massive Overlook towers to the east. He could barely make out the dim stone still rearing above the darkened landscape. This was a place that death had come to, in the worst way. Death caused by his own failings, his own dereliction of duty. Until he did this one act the ghosts would never be silent.

Still, he gritted his teeth and followed his sister into one of the waiting boats. The oarsmen were expressionless as they rowed to shore. The whisper of the oars in the water roared in Connor's ears the closer they came to the silent beachhead. His heart began to race, and sweat popped up underneath his tunic.

_What will I find here, and what will find me?_ The faces of all the men...his men...swam in front of his eyes, as they had every day since he'd discovered their fate. _I didn't mean to desert you! Lothar needed us for the battle in the Burning Steppes. There wasn't time to come back to get you!_

The platitudes rang hollowly in his mind, as they had for all the moments that had passed since that one decision, when he'd ordered his raiding party to make for Menethil instead of Tol Barad. He'd seen the flags on the horizon, and ignored the portent in favor of battle and glory. Assisting Commander Anduin Lothar and the Alliance in a final stand against Doomhammer was much more pressing then returning to await instructions on the lonely base. Lordaeron had its own forces, and could well hold out the weeks he was absent.

Despite his intentions he'd missed the massive battle where Lothar fell, and ended up shepherding fleeing citizens of Stormwind to refuge in Westfall and Redridge. It was during a regrouping in Ironforge (where he'd discovered Jillian alive and well) that news finally arrived of the horrors committed on Tol Barad. Doomhammer's forces had decimated all living things on the island. It was rumored that not even the animals and insects had survived his wrath.

_Did they scream out for me in their final moments, cursing the pride that allowed Doomhammer to succeed?_

His men had always felt his bloodthirsty reputation cocooned their activities on the island; protecting them from reprisals by the orcish battalions they regularly sailed out to destroy. Each raid he'd felt obligated to create a scene of such carnage and butchery that their enemies would think twice about testing themselves on his home base. Yet in the end that reputation had not deterred Doomhammer's revenge.

The grating of sand against the wooden planks jerked him out of his reverie. Connor stood; mechanically gathering his satchel and stepping out onto the beach. The white sands rippled mockingly and for a moment he could see his soldiers rushing to the beach to meet him as they always had. His vision blurred, and there was nothing save sage grass and a few scavenging foxes to greet his return.

"Welcome to the new Tol Barad, laddie!" Lord Farson called expansively. He was bounding out of his boat, glowing with pride. "Once you see what we've done, you'll wonder if you ever left at all!"

"I wonder that already," Connor said quietly. Only Jillian, standing close by, heard. She patted his hand comfortingly.

"You will stay with us in the former Keep, yes? Well, it was the Keep. I call it my Hold now. Farson Hold."

"Of course you do," Jillian said dryly. Connor shot her a silencing glance before nodding at the dwarf.

"We would be honored, if it's not too much trouble."

"None at all, laddie. You and the lass are welcome. Unless you would rather stay in the village." Farson coughed conspiratorially. "It's called Rustberg for more reasons than one, if you catch my meaning."

"Your Hold is fine."

"Splendid and well met! I will have my people ready some appropriate quarters." Farson took a step then chuckled. "Ah look, laddie, news of your coming spreads fast!"

Connor whipped his head around, one hand groping for his absent sword. During the voyage he'd shunned his full armor in favor of civilian attire, and had left re-arming himself until after landfall. Had they come for him now, the murdered, seeking to slake their anger while he was defenseless?

From within the mist several figures emerged; walking soundlessly on the battered stones and between the waving grasses. In the bleakness their blue and gold robes glowed with an almost holy light. Connor noted his sister curtseying deeply. It wasn't until the massive arcane eye pendants around their necks were visible that he forced himself to relax and bow as well.

"First Lieutenant Jonathan Connor," a musical voice rang out. It sounded vaguely thalassian. From beneath the heavy hood gleaming blue eyes flashed.

"And priestess Jillian Connor," a male voice seconded from the right. The small group stopped several feet away. Connor had the distinct impression they were examining the two of them. All around Farson's people were unloading their goods and flowing away east and west, yet they may as well have been alone on the sand. Abruptly the lead figure twitched back the concealing hood and fixed them with a dark eye.

It was a woman; old and grizzled in a way rarely seen among the human kingdoms. Her iron gray hair was cropped short, and echoed the harsh light in her eyes. Deep creases and wrinkles split her face but her hands, half raised in a gesture of irritation, were steady and smooth as a child's.

"I am Grezla." Her voice screeched and tore like a fishwife's blade. "I lead the Kirin Tor here. Why have you come?"

"My brother wishes to honor his fallen comrades," Jillian answered with a cute bow. Grezla's face tightened, and she looked as if she wished to spit.

"Honor! Comrades! Bah! Has your king sent you here, against the wishes of the Six? What do you hope to find in this graveyard?"

"I only want to honor the slain. They deserve to be buried properly, with full honors."

Grezla frowned deeply, her entire face falling into shadow. "And in the burying, there are spoils yes? Items you want, trinkets to steal?"

Connor frowned. "I will not have my honor impugned, even by a representative from the Kirin Tor. My word should be enough for you. My deeds should reassure you of my intentions."

"The deeds of men, even honorable men, warp as time passes. Darkness surrounds this place, infecting and twisting feats of good until they are nothing but vile perversions." Grezla spat at their feet. "Do as you will. As I have told Farson, I'll tell you. Stay out of Tol Barad beyond the great Blackstone Span. The Kirin Tor do their work there, and we will not be disturbed by the likes of you!"

With her words still ringing in the air, Grezla vanished. The elfin figure did as well. The male paused briefly, his hood twitching back enough to show tensed lips.

"This place is tricky," he whispered. "It is steeped in the darkness of the blackest of deeds. Be wary of all you see, for the truth hides." He bowed and vanished into the thickening mists.


	4. Chapter 3 Recon the Island

The next day dawned ponderously grey. Connor stood in the ratty tent pitched inside the ruins of a house close to the Hold pulling on his chain mail. Appropriate quarters had turned out to be scarce inside; doubtless made scarcer by his and his sister's refusals to eat any of Farson's welcoming feast. It had been difficult with the strange mage's words still ringing in their ears to dine at all. While a berth had been found inside the barracks for his sister eventually, Farson had deemed a tent in the ruins surrounding the Hold just perfect for a former First Lieutenant.

"It will help you feel right at home, laddie!" Farson had said jovially, even as anger simmered in his eyes.

Connor had acquiesced, even though in times before his quarters had been closer to the Overlook, and definitely not in a tent. Pleading stomach upset, both he and his sister had sought their beds early.

"Why exactly are we listening to those mages anyway?" Jillian had hissed. "They could be as crazy as the Kul Tirans!"

Yet with the warnings still echoing in his ears, Connor had started noticing something off about their hosts. While Farson and his newcomers bubbled and laughed, those who had been living on the island were silent and reserved. They moved furtively, their eyes constantly lashing the surroundings. In between glances they appeared to finger absent weapons. Walking out to his tent in the gloom of night, Connor could have sworn he saw some of the Hold's guards crossing themselves as they peered into the mists.

The tent flap burst open, and his sword was nearly out of its sheath before he marked the glowering form of his sister. She was fully dressed in shimmering white clerical robes; marked here and there with small gemstones and embroidery. A gilded staff lay across her back, and a thick tome glowed from the opened pouch at her waist. She held out a small cake between two fingers.

"I managed to grab this for you. Not an easy task seeing as Farson wanted us to breakfast with him."

Connor took it gratefully and chewed. "I appreciate it, Jilly. I appreciate you coming here."

Jillian laughed. "What other priest would you get to come with you on this crazy errand?" She shook her head. "We should get going though. Daylight, such as it is, is burning."

Connor had wanted to walk the island on foot and explore the nooks and crannies of his memory. Farson had vetoed that idea the previous night, insisting that the two of them take one of his draft horses to ride around the island, at least at first.

"There are nasty things in the Darkwood, laddie," he'd warned, spearing a thick cut of dripping steak and spewing it over the table. "Spiders, and oh they love to snack on us. I am thinking of your sister's safety, of course, just until you find your bearings again." He'd chewed noisily for several moments, then guffawed. "You should make sure to see the area close to the Span. I think you'll find it to your liking!"

As ordered, a dejected nag was saddled and ready for them at the doors to the Hold. Her handlers barely nodded as they mounted and moved out into the mist.

"Not a friendly place," Jillian remarked. "I'll be glad to get back to civilization. Ironforge is quite cozy in the wintertime."

They fell silent, their breath vanishing into the heaving dark. Even the clopping of the nag's hooves seemed muted in the haze. The old stone road was still in place circling the island, split now with weeds. A brief canter brought them to a newer bridge, and the rough construction of the outskirts of Rustberg Village. As they passed, villagers paused briefly in their labors to stare moonishly in their direction. Connor quickly marked a variety of forms; human, gnome, dwarf, and even tauren. All appeared indifferent to them as they worked.

"This used to be where the soldiers slept," Connor said quietly. "Close to the Overlook, in case they were needed to man the cannons."

The road twisted off towards the silent towers, but Connor remained on the wide swath around the woods. Shapes skittered beneath the dripping branches, and he made sure to give them a large berth. There would be time enough to revisit these places. As they continued, the mist began to thin. Just past the cutoff to the great iron span leading to the rest of Tol Barad, it vanished entirely.

Connor moaned deep in his throat and stopped the nag, silently cursing Farson's obliqueness. Before them was the entire tableau of the Alliance's last stand on Tol Barad. Massive siege engines lay hacked to bits; their rusting hulks strewn across the landscape. Bodies clawed their way from the mossy ground; skeletal fingers raised in eternal supplication. Ruined armors winked from beneath leathery bushes. The charnel house reek he'd sensed from the sea was back. It rushed into his nostrils, choking out the very air. Screams echoed in his ears. He could see forms running, fighting, and falling only to die in twisted agonies. Vomit rose in his throat, and tears burned in his eyes. This was what his desertion had led to.

"Hmm," Jillian mused. She slid off the nag, kneeling to place her fingers to the ground. "There was a mighty battle here for sure. Shadow magics," her face darkened. "Things lurid enough to scar the very earth."

Connor battled to speak past the knot in his throat. He could see them all sprawled in the shadows; streaked with blood and ravaged by war. He could have stopped it if he'd just returned to Tol Barad in time. The orcs used his name to frighten small children, or so he'd been told. If not, he would have been with his loyal soldiers to the end.

"The orcs were fond of using warlocks. So the mage was right to warn us?" he finally croaked.

"He could have just told us straight out," she grumbled, wiping her fingers on her robe. "It's nothing that can't be handled by the right blessings from the Light. They can still be laid to rest, just as you wanted. Do you know where you want to put them, or will this do?"

"No. It has to be in view of the sea," Connor said simply, rubbing at his throat. "They deserve to see the ocean for eternity instead of the place they died."

"Let's keep going then," Jillian said, swinging back up behind him. "We know where they are now."

Connor spurred the nag onwards, taking special pains to remain on the battered road. Both orcish and human figures littered the sides, although humans made up the majority by far. From the corners of his eyes Connor swore he saw movement; as if figures remained locked in combat above the desecrated earth.

"A restless front," Jillian breathed in his ear.

"Not for long," Connor vowed.

They'd found a small plateau overlooking the sea, just at the edge and above the carnage of the front, that would serve as a proper gravesite. While Connor waited, Jillian walked around the circular hilltop; consecrating the ground in the name of the Light. As she moved around the space, Connor began to feel his spirits lift slightly. Even the ever-present mist appeared to lighten, and weak sunlight filtered through the clouds. The island was still a gloomy gray, but the haze was definitely weaker.

When she finished, Jillian was sweating. She tucked her prayer book back in the pouch and wiped her face. "I put everything into it. This ground is as consecrated as I can make it."

"Thank you, Jilly," Connor said, laying a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged. "It's the least I can do, brother. Without you and your name, I probably would have died when Stormwind fell. So what is our next step? We become gravediggers?"

Connor shook his head. "One thing I know about our host is his greed. I've got some gold to hire workers with. We need people to move the bodies, and place the headstones, and get the monument up. That's no task for unknowledgeable folks."

"Do you think he'll still be willing after last night?"


	5. Chapter 4 Farson's Request

"Ah, laddie, I wish I could spare you some of my stone boys, but the Hold needs work you know!" Farson tutted, striding around his audience chamber. Connor tried not to glance around the wood-paneled room. It had once been the main meeting area for the Tol Barad commanders. Now, trophies and banners festooned the walls and heavily-armed guards glowered from the corners. The changes could not mask the obvious gouges hailing from the orcish invasion, even with the most expensive carpets and rugs.

"How can I persuade you?" Connor opened, lightly patting the pouch at his waist. He noted Farson's eyes locking onto the movement; the vestiges of remaining anger dying in the light of possible riches. "I have the marble headstones from Westfall on board the _Bitter Sea_, along with the pre-cut pieces to the monument. I would need your men for perhaps two, maybe three weeks tops."

It was a dance he knew well from his time among the dwarves of Ironforge. Some flattery and general hints, then a full offer. Connor placed the small casket on Farson's desk and flipped open the lid. He knew each coin and glittering stone by heart. The gems had been pried from the armor and weapons of hundreds of fallen orcs; the coin gleaned from selling the stripped armors to various vulture blacksmiths across the Eastern Kingdom. It was a decent fortune, enough to buy liberty and land enough for any soldier. As always, Connor felt a faint revulsion when he stared at it. The money could not buy him absolution from guilt, or freedom from dreams of the fallen.

Farson was humming happily, selecting various coins to bite and drop back in the cask with obvious pleasure. "This task means a great deal to you, doesn't it, laddie?" His stumpy fingers plucked out a fat star ruby, rubbing the crimson facets gently. "For such a mission I am sure to make an exception of me workers...just this once." He snapped the casket closed. Connor sighed. The dwarf was greedier then he'd thought.

"Now this covers me workers, but boarding and whatever food may please you and your sister is a different matter." Connor's head swung up. The dwarf was grinning in a most unpleasant way.

"You are well-known as a fighter, First Lieutenant Connor." Farson drew out the words with relish. "I have need of a steady hand on the weapon. When I request your sword, I want your word you will obey me without question."

"Without knowing the reason?"

"In full trust in me and mine."

Connor frowned. "I don't like giving my word without knowing why."

"If you feel you canna trust me, laddie, you and your sister are free to seek shelter elsewhere on the island. Maybe the Kirin Tor will allow you over the bridge and into that prison of theirs?" Farson snorted.

"Fine," Connor said flatly. "When you need me, I'll be there."

"Pleasure doing business with you, laddie!" Farson grabbed his hand, pumping vigorously before turning back to the casket. Connor had the distinct urge to wipe his hand on his chain mail. The dwarf, for all his gaiety, was dripping in nervous sweat.


	6. Chapter 5 What Lurks Below

Three weeks into the work, and things were moving relatively smoothly towards completion. Farson had detailed ten masons from Rustberg Village and ten more strong laborers to assist Connor's plans. All the laborers were as taciturn and shifty-eyed as any who lived in Tol Barad, but at least they worked hard. Within the first week, the grand marble temple began springing to life in the center of the hilltop. Bodies were disinterred from the clinging moss and carted the short distance to their new resting places in the consecrated ground. Jillian was constantly at work tracing out the circular rows and directing the placement of headstones. As new corpses were brought up, new graves were dug, and rites said for each.

His sister looked every inch the cleric of the Light, Connor thought with a surge of pride. Unlike many he knew, battle-tested priests included, she did not turn away from even the most piteous of bodies. Each were blessed as if they were royalty to be interred below the great Cathedral in Stormwind. As the earth closed over them, he could feel something lightening in his heart. He may not have died with them, but at least he could ensure their souls were free from this rock.

Each day ran into the one before; construction, disinterment, re-internment. Connor swung a shovel on most days to better watch the masons at work. Other days he led the way with his sword and torches, driving back the hideous Darkwood spiders to rescue the bodies who had fallen into their webs.

_I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I lived. I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ It was a mantra in his head, over and over. It kept him going despite the sore muscles and lack of food. Since beginning his grim task, it had been difficult to let more then a few morsels pass his lips. All he wanted was to finish and lay his comrades to rest. Anything else was unimportant. Even the increasingly bizarre behavior of Farson and his Hold guards meant little as long as progress was made daily on the graveyard.

Connor glanced up, his eye catching a strange gleam. It was one of the Rustberg carts, trundling down the hill towards the Hold. He tossed down his shovel and sprinted after it. As the cart reached the ford, Connor grasped the handles. The driver, a large tauren with broken horns, stopped at his touch.

"What is in here?" Connor asked, flipping up the sacking. Before his horrified eyes were stacks of armor: chest pieces and greaves, shattered helmets and boots. Intermixed were piles of swords and maces, many still gleaming beneath their rust, and other small items of value.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Lord Farson," the tauren said slowly. "Orders."

"Orders to rob from the dead?"

The tauren shrugged and picked up the traces again. "Orders."

"We'll see," Connor growled. He stomped across the ford, leaving the laboring tauren behind. He was halfway up the hill towards the Hold when the blazing orange hair of the dwarf appeared, flanked by a small squad of his guards. He smiled broadly when he spied Connor.

"Perfect timing, laddie. I was just coming to find you."

"Why did you give orders to steal from the dead, Farson? That wasn't our deal."

"I don't recall any mention of not taking a few trinkets here and there," Farson said loftily. Connor put a hand on his sword's hilt. The guards around Farson tensed.

"Now, now, laddie, you know better then anyone how poor this place is. This old equipment will be useful outfitting my people. You wouldn't deny us protection? Besides, I have something you may want."

Farson held something out, glittering at the end of a silver chain. Connor moved his hand off his weapon and took it. As the metal slid over his fingers, a chill stabbed throughout his body.

"I knew you would recognize it," Farson laughed delightedly. "It's from your friend, Commander Largo. His good luck charm. You inspired me, you see. I've had my people cleaning up the Overlook and they happened to find this little gem."

Connor clenched the charm tight. Largo had been a solid companion; dedicated and devoted to the Alliance. There were many nights he listened to him spin stories about the charm he claimed to have received from a naga sea witch. Just thinking of Farson's greedy hands on it made him feel sick.

"Put it on, laddie. Mayhap it'll bring you luck on our adventure. It's time to call in that bond of yours."

With the charm around his neck, Connor followed Lord Farson and his guard around the island, along the shadowed paths and up to Blackstone Span. For such a small thing, the charm was heavy around his neck, and burned his flesh with its chill. Since putting it on, Connor had begun to feel slightly sick.

_Lack of food is all_, he thought. _And irritation at having to deal with this dwarf_.

Blackstone Span loomed in the mists; a vast iron bridge connecting the peninsula with the rest of Tol Barad. The sea far below roared as they hiked across. Just as the far end came into view, Farson snapped his fingers. Two of his guards whipped up their rifles and fired. Muffled thumps echoed back to their position.

"What was that?" Connor asked. His head felt like it was swimming in the mists.

"Nothing," Farson snapped. "We press on."

With Connor in tow the group gained the far side. A quick glance confirmed it. Two Kirin Tor mages lay dead on either side of the bridge, neatly shot through the head. Farson was already several yards ahead when Connor sprinted to catch up.

"You're going to take on the Kirin Tor? Are you mad?"

"They have no right to deny us the bounty left here. Tol Barad is ours!"

Hands grabbed Connor's arms, and rough cords quickly bound his hands. Guards marched him forward, sweeping him along in Farson's wake. The dwarf was smiling again, a darkly wicked grimace broken only by his darting tongue. Connor tried to struggle, but received only a quick thump to the back of the head in reward.

"You have no idea the riches left here, laddie. The orcs turned this side of the island into a massive fortress and kept their spoils of war here. The first Kul Tirans back to the island improved it further, giving it stockpiles of weapons and food. Then Kirin Tor came, wanting a prison, or so they said. Bah! Uppity mages," Farson grumbled to himself, "how dare they keep it all for themselves!"

As they rounded a corner between the craggy bluffs, Connor saw the vastly ruined fortress of Tol Barad spread out before them. Watchtowers hung in the distance, and large empty complexes dotted the landscape. Yet Farson and his guards drug him on, through the swamp close to the fortress and to a strange stairway heading down below the walls. Connor was shoved into the reeking darkness with the guards close behind. Two stayed at the entrance, while the others paced alongside their lord.

A putrid green light filtered throughout the halls, illuminating the hammered iron that made up the floor. Strange doors, all securely closed, lined the passageway. A memory filtered into Connor's mind, of the Old Stockade in Stormwind. This was certainly the prison of the Kirin Tor.

Farson stopped in front of a door like all the others; pausing to run his hand over the pitted iron. "This is it," he said hoarsely. He attacked the door, wrenching on the handle. It gave slowly, shrieking with rust. Connor barely glimpsed something inside; something that glowed brilliantly pink before it vanished into the dwarf's hands.

"Mine!" Farson shrieked. "The Eye of Dalaran! I knew it was here!"

His head swung up, mouth gaping open. The pink light was blazing between his fingertips. The rear of the cell appeared to be fading away, revealing a monstrous shape poised in the heart of vast cavern. Connor's mind reeled from the expansive of leathery blue flesh and spines, and gnashing spiked teeth. Wings unfurled from its back, and massive swords swung free.

"I shall be free, insects!" it roared.

"Fire!" Farson screamed. The pink jewel fell out of his hands and vanished. All around his guards fired wildly. Connor backed up and bolted. His hands twisted, seeking freedom. The ropes finally came loose as his feet gained the stairs and vaulted him into the swampy waters outside.

_Demons...here!_ His mind shrieked. They were the most feared of Doomhammer's troops; the vile monsters conjured by his warlocks to fight at his side. The thing below was a pit lord. Connor's mind raced. How could he possibly fight that alone?

He needed to get Jillian and get off Tol Barad to find help. Perhaps the mage who warned them would be willing to portal them away, or failing that Captain Harris could be persuaded to return to Menethil. Connor stumbled to his feet, shoving through stands of whiptail towards the road.

He stopped short, staring ahead. Unseen in the journey in was a large metal grate set into the rocky hillside. Eyes were pressed to the bars watching his every move. Hands extended out towards him; first two, then four, then six, tipped with vicious claws.


	7. Chapter 6 Claimed by the Past

"Poor human, it can _see _the darkness now," a voice hissed. Against his will Connor stepped towards the bars; closer and closer until the vague shape was revealed. It was tall and exceedingly feminine for a demon, save for the six arms. Part of his mind shrieked its name: a Shivan. Its clawed hands closed around his arm, drawing him closer. Her burning yellow eyes bored into his, crushing his will.

"This curse is yours," she hissed, fangs flashing. Her teeth buried themselves deep in his arm. Connor screamed, the spell broken, and tore himself free. The Shivan laughed, lapping the blood from her face.

"Enjoy the other wonders you see," she hissed, fading back into the darkness.

Connor stumbled across the span, barely noting the mage bodies were gone. His arm throbbed and oozed dark blood in counterpoint to his spinning mind.

_Got to get to Jillian_, he thought desperately, shoving himself onwards. She would be at the gravesite most likely. Then, as his blood continued to drip across the cracked ground, other thoughts crowded in. _Is this how they died? Did Doomhammer feed them to his demons once he'd had his fun?_

Connor tripped and fell down the hillside, coming to a stop just at the edge of what had been the front. Strange sounds rang in his ears, sounding for all the world like a fierce battle raging at his feet. He forced his eyes to focus and let out a desperate moan.

Among the wreckage of the siege engines translucent figures were grappling. Alliance soldiers attacked Horde shades; their screams and yells reverberating off the rusted metal. They took no notice of his presence among them as they fought. Connor dragged himself up, tears flowing from his eyes. Even with Jillian's consecration, even with giving his men a proper burial, they were still trapped here in an endless war.

He stumbled away, uncaring of direction. His feet took him towards the Overlook, to where Commander Largo had stayed. He could see the ghosts now gliding around stacks of rusted cannonballs, still aping their daily duties. Finally gazing up, he made out a skeletal figure hovering at the window of the grand tower. It waved down to him.

"Glad to see you finally returned, First Lieutenant," it rasped.

Connor screamed and began to run, dodging the curious spiders and ignoring the furtive looks as he passed Rustberg. A glance out at the beachhead confirmed his wild thoughts. The bay was full of wrecked ships; glassy water broken only by rippling fins from the hungry sharks. The _Bitter Sea_ itself lay half-sunken in the mists, its undead crew now roaming the shore. He and his sister were on an island cursed to its very core. There was no salvation here; for himself or the soldiers who died.

He broke through the waters of the ford and collapsed at the entrance to the hillside graveyard. It still looked as it had before Farson had dragged him to the prison beneath the Fortress. The monument in the center glowed brightly white, and the immaculate headstones gleamed.

However, the shambling movements in the mist were new. As his weary eyes focused, he felt something break deep inside. His fallen comrades were up and walking.

Desiccated corpses and rotting ghouls shambled between graves to absently paw at the stones. Connor covered his face with his hands. The final indignity. Undeath within death, never to be welcomed back into the touch of the Light. All he had done here was for nothing.

"We'd laid the last body when they started rising," a voice behind him said dully. Connor turned. Jillian was standing at the edge of the graveyard; her robes torn and staff shattered. A few steps behind her was a knot of hooded Kirin Tor. Her eyes looked empty and shattered as they met his. "I tried to stop them, I really did. They were too strong for me."

Grezla tossed back her hood, stepping forward with a frown. "I told you that darkness infects this place, down to its very bones. Even without the prisoners we brought here, the foul magics of this place can never be allayed. Farson knows that all to well now, as he creeps back to cower in his Keep." Her expression softly slightly. "While noble, what you tried was foolish. The corrupted Eye twists the very fabric of this place. The dead here can never be placated by lip service to their suffering."

"How then?" Connor whispered.

"Blood calls to blood," Grezla snapped. "You were their First Lieutenant and should have died here with them. It is your life they seek."

"My life," Connor murmured, gazing out into the field. The corpses were milling with more purpose now, their rotted eyes fixed on him. The charm around his neck flared painfully against his skin.

"You are also infected with the curse of this place," Grezla continued. "It runs through you already. Soon enough you will succumb."

Connor looked down. His bite was still oozing weakly. Ribbons of purple stretched out from the wound, burning through his flesh. Bile flooded his mouth. It was true what the mage said. He was cursed, and should be taking his rightful place among his men.

"What about Jillian?"

Her eyes seemed to come back into focus. Grezla put a hand on her shoulder.

"Satisfy your obligation, soldier, and we will see her free."

"Jonathan, no!" Jillian cried, twisting loose. She twisted loose and threw her arms around him. "Don't do this! You survived, they didn't. Does it really matter why? You've done your part!" She shook her head wildly. "We'll get on the boat, get back to Menethil. Once we get back to civilization, we can get you cured!"

Connor hugged his sister tightly, then thrust her away. "I have to do this, Jilly. I shouldn't have survived. I should have been with all of them, here, fighting to the last man. If I have to die, it should be were I should have been."

He turned away, avoiding seeing the tears running down his sister's face. The corpses moved out of his way; their gaping mouths seeming to hiss his name. A few paces and he entered the smooth marble columns of the grand monument. He glanced upwards as he unsheathed his sword and placed the pommel securely against the floor. One motion, and it would all be over.

_Is it too much to wish to see the sun one last time?_

Jillian sobbed as the sword found its mark, and her brother collapsed on the cold stone. She let her holy shield slip away. There seemed no reason now. The unquiet dead were collected around the memorial, swaying as they watched the blood pour from the body.

"The First Lieutenant has finally joined his men in their curse," Grezla muttered.

"What?" Jillian cried, staring at the elderly mage. Grezla waved a hand towards the graves. Jillian whirled, her hand automatically rising to stifle her screams.

Her brother's body was writhing, as if infested with millions of tiny snakes. Flesh sloughed off his bones to rot on the gleaming marble. A battered skull emerged, vile globes of necrotic light burning in the sockets. The unquiet dead murmured as the skeletal figure drew itself up. A clawed hand plucked the sword free and brandished it over the crowd.

"He is one of them now. He has finally rejoined his men. His pilgrimage has ended."

"But he wanted to bring them peace, not join them in their curse!"

"In Tol Barad, peace is impossible. It is cursed beyond hope."

"And what will you do with me?" Jillian asked bitterly. Grezla nodded grimly and unsheathed a small knife. At her motion, the other mages did the same.

"We will free you, as we promised. The freedom of Tol Barad, the same as your brother has obtained. It is all that can be offered in this accursed place."

Jillian glanced back at the monstrous form that was her brother. He was pacing back and forth by the monument as if on guard. She smiled gently and closed her eyes as the mages approached.

"Like this, his legend will never die," she whispered as the blades came down.


End file.
